


Positive Reinforcement

by HolmesFan



Series: Second Chance AU [4]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Norribeth, Shameless Smut, Swordplay as Foreplay, Under-negotiated Kink, marriage AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-08-10 12:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesFan/pseuds/HolmesFan
Summary: Commodore James Norrington has it all: status, rank, renown, and the most stunning woman in the Western Hemisphere, the love of his life, as his wife. Now if only he could get her to behave in public...Alternatively: Elizabeth never became the King, so she wields her power in other ways.ARedemption's PromiseAU.





	1. Release

**Author's Note:**

> Be Advised: this fic diverges from the _Redemption's Promise_ timeline during [Chapter 17](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14183700/chapters/33795945), and it would benefit readers to have read at least that far before embarking on this new journey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James gets his happily ever after.

It’s freeing, really, to finally have his previous life behind him. Like falling asleep in fresh linens.

As he awaits his fiancée’s return from whatever errand has drawn her, Commodore James Norrington, well-known for his boundless patience and composure under fire, experiences tremendous difficulty in finding himself occupation suitable enough to divert his attention from the giddy tumult bubbling beneath his breastbone.

He sorts the top shelf of the bookcase by color, dusts the trinkets lining the sideboard with his shirtsleeve, winds the clock on the mantle over the empty fireplace, and even attempts to follow the notes dotting the top sheet of music Elizabeth has left on the pianoforte, though he is dreadfully out of practice and soon stops out of courtesy to anyone who might be within earshot. Eventually, he settles on plucking a tome from the stack next to her favorite chair at random and rereads the same paragraph eight times or so before finally giving up and simply staring out the terrace doors into the garden.

Having arrived home a full week early from his latest tour, he’d practically skipped all the way from the docks to her doorstep, more eager than ever to return to her side. Four months. Four months, three days, twenty-one hours, and sixteen minutes until Elizabeth Swann, the love of both his lives, becomes his wife. Even thinking the word splits his lips in an unbidden smile. How odd that one syllable could fill him with such immeasurable joy.

A feminine gasp of delight has him turning from his brown study, and he has just enough time to unlink the hands behind his back before Elizabeth flies forward on slippered feet, throwing her arms around him in an embrace that is all excitement and expensive silk.

‘You’re back!’ She enthuses amidst peppering his chin and jawline with chaste kisses, and he ducks his head so that he might have the full taste of her lips once more. Breathless and sparkling, she pulls back, though not out of reach. ‘I see you brought me flowers,’ she grins, nodding toward the arrangement of hyacinths lying on the sideboard.

‘Indeed,’ he hums in answer. ‘And that’s not all I’ve brought you.’

She quirks an elegant brow at the playful cadence of his voice, responding in kind, ‘Oh? Well, don’t keep us in suspense.’

‘Hold out your hand.’

Her lips twitch, but she does as she’s bade. James reaches into his pocket and produces a neatly folded bit of frippery: a lace fichu of such fine tatting it could have been spun by spiders. Recognition flares in her liquid brown gaze when he places the garment in her outstretched palm, as does a healthy measure of amusement. Anything approaching contrition is tellingly absent.

‘A wicked favor to have sent with me,’ he murmurs, hooded eyes archiving the microexpressions that flit across her lovely face as his fingers trail her cheekbone and tuck an errant curl behind her ear. ‘A lesser man might take such a thing as an invitation.’

As usual, Elizabeth refuses to be cowed. ‘Did it keep you warm?’ She practically purrs, deliberate digits dancing over the buttons on his frock coat.

_Merciless chit._ If James had any sense, he’d stop trying to beat her at her own game. After all, the consolation prize still holds a great deal of appeal. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon one’s grip on their sanity, any attempt at a witty rejoinder is promptly abandoned when her hands snake up to tug his face to hers for a smoldering kiss that heats his blood from a simmer to a boil. His fingers are in her hair, her body is melting against his, and _sweet Christ,_ is that her _tongue?_

April is suddenly eons away.

‘Oh, _James,_’ she breathes against his tingling lips. ‘I’m so ready to be married.’

How felicitous. So is he.

\---

When asked later what he remembers of the actual ceremony, James would be hard pressed to recall anything concrete, his usually impeccable memory reduced to flashes of images and emotion, as though it were blasted to shrapnel by cannon fire. The gleaming shine of polished stone flags, the fluttering flame of tapering altar candles, stained glass dappled pews filled to the brim with onlookers who all seem to meld together into one vast sea of swirling color. And above all, the insistent tang of anxiety on his tongue.

All the changes he’s made, all his efforts to evolve and atone, they have culminated in this day, this moment where everything he has ever wanted is just within reach. Redemption in the form of Elizabeth’s silhouette filling the open doorway of the church, sunlight cascading in around her, a celestial aura that steals the air from his lungs.

A harpist is playing. People are rising. The train of her gossamer veil drifts over the jasmine blossoms scattered across the floor. As she nears, her jubilant gaze meets his, effervescent. Incandescent. His hands tremble. His mouth goes dry.

She posts up across from him. There are delicate ivory flowers woven into her burnished curls. The vicar is speaking. James’ eyes, wide with disbelief any of this is actually happening, trail the slope of her nose, linger on her plush lips, which part in a sweet smile.

‘Breathe,’ she mouths soundlessly.

And, for what must be the first time since she crossed the threshold, he does.

\---

Though he has never been one for parties, James finds himself much more amenable to the reception than he’d anticipated being. Toasts are made in abundance and congratulations are heaped at his feet like so many offerings before a shrine. A squadron of servants bustle about bearing a legion of tiny cakes, and the expensive champagne flows in rivers. A string quartet on a small raised stage performs Bach. Or is it Handel? James isn’t always able to tell the difference.

Edward Norrington, James’ older brother, and the only other family member to accompany his mother on her trip across the Atlantic, is thrice in his cups and feeling generous, clapping James on the back in the greatest show of affection James can ever remember receiving from him. He blusters something about young love and bygone freedoms before begging off to further wade into the complimentary spirits. 

Their mother, though the years have leached the chestnut from her hair and etched gentle ridges into the soft planes of her face, is still as lovely as the day James left his childhood home. He leans down to kiss a happy tear from her powdered cheek, and she playfully tweaks the end of his nose in that way she always used to do. 

‘My boy,’ she murmurs, green eyes alight with adoration. ‘What a fine man you have become.’

The compliment means so much more before she adds the polite lie that his father agrees. She goes on to relay the Admiral’s regards, but James is well aware of their value, which is nothing. His father ceased caring about him long ago, if he ever truly had. Any message delivered from the Admiral by his mother is likely the opposite of what she was told to say, if she was indeed told anything at all.

On the heels of this bittersweet exchange, Weatherby Swann appears at James’ side, gaze so knowing, he wonders how much the Governor overheard. 

‘It is a shame,’ Swann declares, a twinge of sadness threading his usually sanguine voice, ‘how some men steadfastly refuse to see the worth in others.’

James blinks, unsure how to respond.

‘Oh, nevermind me. Merely the musings of an old man.’ He waves a gloved hand as if to dispel the cryptic statement from the air. But his eyes remain serious, his mouth pulling into a tight line. ‘However. There is something I have been meaning to tell you, James.’

‘Sir?’ The word almost sticks to the roof of James’ mouth. Ever conscientious of decorum, the Governor has very rarely called him by his Christian name.

‘I’m sure it was little surprise to you that I favored a match, and I am equally sure you know how happy I am, for both of you, that this union should come to pass. But, it is important to me that you know…’ Weatherby’s lips tilt in a heartfelt, if slight, smile. ‘Regardless of your marriage to my daughter, I have always thought I should be proud to call you son.’

The sentiment lodges in James’ throat and pricks behind his eyes. ‘I can think of no higher honor, sir.’

And in that moment, he truly cannot.

\---

‘You should have seen him, Harry. Shaking like a leaf! I thought for sure we’d be picking him up off the floor!’

Gillette guffaws drunkenly at his own joke as Toombs, the only officer in the room more well-oiled than him, snorts in laughter and struggles not to sway on his feet. Toombs has had very few sober days since his brother’s death, a truth that weighs heavily on James’ conscience. 

Theodore Groves, who has been married some six months now, rolls his eyes as he plucks the half-empty drink from Toombs’ hand before it is sloshed onto the floor. ‘Ignore him, James. Andrew wouldn’t know respect if it bit him in the ass. I dare say you fared better than I. At least _you_ didn’t stutter through your vows.’

It was a nearer thing than James would like to admit, so he promptly changes the subject, and Theo lets him. It isn’t long before the four of them are reminiscing over past naval escapades, with varying degrees of accuracy in the retelling, naturally.

‘I still don’t understand,’ Gillette slurs around the rim of his glass, ‘why _I_ had to be the one to dress as a woman.’

Theo heaves a beleaguered sigh, but is ineffective at completely hiding his smile. ‘We’ve been over this. James is too tall, Harry is too ugly, and me, well, my jawline is _far_ to masculine to be at all convincing.’

‘Yes. And you made a very pretty girl,’ this from Toombs, who is promptly boxed on the ear for his cheek.

It is then that Elizabeth deems to interrupt, just as the two lieutenants have started elbowing one another and hissing expletives back and forth. 

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ she interrupts brightly, linking an arm through James’. ‘But I’m afraid the Commodore has a pressing prior engagement.’

Even though she has been towed every which way by the attentions of her guests, James has never lost track of Elizabeth, all too aware of her presence as she flit through the crowd, hyper-attuned to the music of her laughter, the glimmer of the gilded embroidery on her dress, the molten heat in her eyes whenever they raked over him from a distance.

Now those same eyes are boring into his as they lead the first dance, and James cannot seem to catch his breath.

‘What are you thinking?’ She asks, resplendent in the golden light of the ballroom.

‘That you are the single most divine creature to walk this earth.’ He is startled by the sincerity of his too-quick answer, but Elizabeth simply breaks into an irreverent grin.

‘I believe the church is liable to disagree.’

James can’t help but grin right back. _My wife,_ he thinks. And the words bring such a rush of bliss, he thinks them again for good measure. _My wife._

What sweet perfection, to be hers. To be surrounded by all his dearest friends and family, everyone who has supported him over the years...everyone except…

Though he is not a religious man, James indulges in a short prayer to whoever might be listening. _Watch over him, please. Keep him safe. Let him be happy. Let him be loved. Will deserves to be loved._

Then the dance ends, and a new one begins. And James forgets all about curses, condemnation, and soul-crushing loneliness.

\---

The carriage ride home- no longer just _his,_ but _theirs-_ is initially passed in awkward silence. Twilight has painted the horizon, slashing the clouds with pink and lengthening the shadows cast across the cobbled road. James would prefer to travel astride his own mount, made queerly claustrophobic by the tight compartment in spite of his extensive experience with the cramped conditions often found at sea. The abiding nerves from earlier have ratcheted up tenfold.

He steals glances at Elizabeth as she watches the scenery pass through the window, chin braced in her palm, until she catches him, her eyes holding his captive from the opposite seat. They remain that way for what feels like an eternity, James paralyzed as she studies him, then, without preamble, she takes hold of her ample skirts and ducks her head as she rises.

‘Move over, James.’

He does as he’s quietly commanded, and she plants herself next to him, the sheer volume of her gown overfilling the seat as it puffs up around her. She takes his hand, which had been balled in a fist on his knee, and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. Elizabeth is comforting him, he realizes as her steady fingers thread through his own. Despite her leaving nearly everything of her former life behind, it is _she_ who is soothing _him._ Like a groom soothes a skittish horse.

How brave she is. How fearless. How strong. And how blessed _he_ is, that she should love him.

She fills him with awe. And courage. 

When the carriage finally rolls to a stop outside his- their- home, James doesn’t even wait for the footman, throwing open the door and scooping Elizabeth into his arms. She looses a delighted little squeal at being so manhandled and beams up at him the entire trek up the walk.

But as soon as he has crossed the threshold, she pushes out of his grasp, alighting gracefully on the tiled floor of the foyer. ‘At last,’ she exults. Then she seizes his bottom lip between her teeth.

James is shucked free of his hat, frock, and wig, which is carelessly flung some indeterminate direction, before they even finish climbing the stairs, leaving his uniform strewn in bits for the staff to find. As she fumbles with the buttons of his waistcoat, all the while steering him backward down the hall, he quips something about giving her a tour.

Elizabeth pauses in her task, giving him a wry look. ‘I’ve been here before, James. Remember? I left you flowers.’ An impish grin appears in answer to his nonplussed expression. ‘Consider it a scouting mission.’

He would make a clever retort, but there’s suddenly a second tongue in his mouth, and it’s too crowded to form words. _God,_ she tastes so _good._ Like champagne and sunshine and _heat._ He wants to devour her. To rip open the front of this ludicrous confection of a dress and lave the core of her until she screams.

But he doesn’t, swallowing down the unexpected surge of savage hunger before it has time to take root, and, instead, helps her disrobe with agonizing deliberation, hands trembling with need. As the soft satin of her petticoats slithers between his fingers to pool on the floor, she squirms beneath his touch.

‘Next time,’ she promises as she plucks his hands from her flushed skin and tugs him toward the bed, the gaping neckline of her chemise slipping over her shoulder to reveal the curve of one of her magnificent breasts. ‘Next time we can do whatever you want, but I must have you now, James.’

Propped up on the pillows, legs spread before him, soaking the linen below her as his fingers find her stunningly responsive, Elizabeth practically begs for his cock, and James decides patience is overrated anyway.

\---

‘I was thinking we ought to explore the front guestroom next.’

Elizabeth is stretched out across the finely crafted sofa in his study, clad in naught but her clocked ivory stockings, freckled flesh stark in comparison to the coffee colored leather. When she senses his gaze on her, she rolls onto her stomach and assesses him over the arm, feet kicking in the air behind her, messy curls that have worked free of her once-fancy updo spilling over the slope of her forehead and shoulders. She’s clearly awaiting a reaction, eyes bright with mirth, and James’ lips twitch as he resists a smile.

_Explore._ Her word for what they’ve been doing. Not an unfitting description, but more apt a term for their investigation of one another than the house itself. Which neither have left in three days.

An outing was almost accomplished earlier _today,_ James having insisted Elizabeth dress in her own room as she is not one to withstand temptation in any form...and..._he_ is proving not much better in that regard. But then she had stopped him just before the threshold to pick some bit of fluff from his epaulet and straighten his cravat, bottom lip snagged between her teeth, and before James could police himself, he was kissing her. They had barely retreated into the study and closed the door before layers were being shed once again.

A mercy, that. There’s already been enough embarrassments with the staff. James wishes Elizabeth would at least try to be conscious of their sensibilities, how they’ll talk. But she steadfastly refuses to take his caution seriously, merely giggling and dragging him somewhere else whenever they are stumbled upon. The prospect seems to titillate her, and rather than fret over it, James resolves their Christmas bonus will be much larger this year as recompense.

Not for the first time, as he flips through the piled reports on his desk and his eyes hitch on the swell of her pert little ass, he entertains the idea of attaching bells to her slippers so that the household might hear her coming. Himself included. She has proven distressingly adept in the art of ambush.

His new wife is ever so fierce in her appetites. Ferocious, really. Delightfully insatiable. And not at all shy in her requests. Though, perhaps _commands_ would be more apropos.

By way of wedding gift, she has come into possession of a wicked little book that he often spots tucked away among her things or watches her whisk into her skirts the moment he comes into the room. ‘Research.’ she’s playfully told him, and, while he might feign sternness or shock, it is never long before he indulges her. 

James is, as ever, helpless against her. But before, he had been fighting only the myriad of closely-guarded fantasies his lonely mind had conjured over the years. Now, he knows the reality of her greedy lips and brazen hands. She is voracious. Vehement. And very...limber.

He clears his throat before finally responding, ‘I’m beginning to suspect you’ve a plan to christen every room.’

Elizabeth’s lips part in a puckish grin as she rises, unfolding herself as gracefully as a cat and sauntering toward him. ‘Would that be so terrible?’ she croons as she descends into his lap, straddling him as her arms drape over his shoulders. A handful of forgotten reports flutter to the floor behind her. ‘I dare say you’ve enjoyed the endeavor so far.’

He has. Immensely. ‘As you say, my love.’

His acquiescence pleases her, but they don’t actually make it to the front guestroom. Instead, Elizabeth, in her impatience, entreats him to take her against the wall. The notion would have caused him to balk only a few days before, but he has since come to see the merits of obedience. Long legs wrapped around him, one hand fisted in his hair, the other scoring lines down his back, Elizabeth moans encouragement into his ear, and James is only too happy to oblige.

Yet, for all her pleas of more and harder and faster, for all her guerrilla tactics and mercenary pushing of boundaries, James doesn’t have it in him to truly let go as she bids. Though it was a lifetime ago, there is a residual darkness that lingers in the void the ruthless ambition of his past self left behind. A black corner within him where his demons once held court and his rage gathered in acid pools. They may be gone, but the evidence of their reign over him has not, and the scars are not so well healed as he’d like.

Somewhere deep beneath the man he is now, the brute he used to be lies dormant, waking every so often to rattle the bars of his cage and howl curses at his gaoler. The same brute who had prompted him to throttle a penniless orphan for saying Elizabeth’s name. The same brute who had nearly convinced him to drown Sparrow the instant he appeared and be done with it. The same one who thrives in combat and adversity and violence. The one that left a man half dead in an alley...and _liked_ it.

But, despite his fear of that man, James is still a flame that burns brightly. He wants. And, while he always waits for an invitation, always has her be the one to instigate, never reaches for her for all his desire, while he _obeys…_

James _wants._

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet again, dear readers! And this time, I come bearing the marriage AU many of you have been so vocally yearning for! I plan on this fic being three or four chapters long...and very, _very_ dirty.
> 
> Never let it be said that I am anything but your benevolent and generous servant. A veritable Filth Wizard with a pen.
> 
> Punch that kudos button if you've enjoyed this so far, and feel free to leave any feedback in the comments. I flourish in the warmth of your encouragement!
> 
> And strap in, folks! This one's gonna be a _doozy!_
> 
> ((Header Image by [spicymanqoz](https://spicymanqoz.tumblr.com/).))


	2. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James gets more than he bargained for.

Elizabeth is unaccustomed to early rising, heedless of the dawn light as it spills through the curtains and across the foot of their bed, content to dream away the morning until roused by the staff. Or, at least, she had been. Now, it is James who wakes her, sliding out from beneath her outspread arm with excruciating care tempered with an almost crushing reluctance to leave the warmth of her embrace. Despite his best efforts not to disturb her, he glances up from the buttons of his waistcoat to find her surveying him with sleep-drunk eyes, a fond sort of cant to her lips.

She escorts him to the door, having half dressed while he broke his fast, and presses a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hands. ‘Lunch,’ she clarifies at his raised brow, voice still thick with slumber. ‘No husband of mine shall miss meals due to distraction. Not from work, anyway.’

Then she kisses him goodbye, sweet as you please, and lingers at the threshold as he mounts his bay stallion, remaining there even as the hedgerow comes between them, blocking her from sight.

James untwists in his saddle, turning his gaze to the road despite his heart remaining planted on the top step of the portico staircase. The sendoff plucks at some taught string behind his ribs, sticking in his throat and threatening to mist his eyes.

Somehow, despite all his years there, the house never felt so much a home as it does in this moment, with Elizabeth’s silhouette filling the doorway.

\---

Admittedly, James had worried Elizabeth might have difficulty adjusting to life as a society wife, it being no secret the concept has never truly appealed to her. Certainly not as much as...other things. Sometimes he wonders how narrowly he missed them; her flight from Port Royal, a life at sea, piracy...the lot. But such contemplations only serve to reinvite his former melancholy, so he makes an effort to properly banish them when they come to bear.

Besides, his fears ultimately prove irrelevant, and James has never been more grateful to be wrong. 

Elizabeth rather seamlessly inherits the running of the household from Mrs. Howe, the housekeeper, and it is not long before she begins implementing changes of varying prominence and nature. From redecorating the guest rooms to adding more diversity to the weekly menus to having new beds of flowers planted in the garden, she makes her mark in a very real and tangible way that thrills James with its permanence.

He is equally thrilled by the more subtle evidence of her presence: forgotten half-filled cups of tepid tea, discarded envelopes bearing her name, blots of ink and feather quills left behind from the endless lists she writes to gather her thoughts. Such attestation to domesticity pleases James more than he can possibly articulate, so he endeavors to convey the depth of his joy through other means. He is certain he has never smiled more in the whole of his existence than he has in these past weeks.

She accepts invitations on their behalf, sparkling on his arm when they attend, maneuvering so adeptly among their peers, it almost seems second nature. He watches her wield wit, charm, and diplomacy with no small amount of awe, content to let her speak for them both in such settings, trusting her skill and judgement.

If she is dissatisfied by the role she has stepped into, he cannot tell, and her continued pursuit of intimacy goes a long way toward assuaging his anxiety over the matter. His new wife only grows more bold as time wears on. And she very much likes to surprise him. Her intermittent visits to his office at the fort often result in drawn drapes and locked doors.

She has also accumulated a sprawling wardrobe of delicate undergarments. Satin and silk and lace so fine it snags on his callouses when he touches her. James is so very careful. With her things. With her. He has to tamp down the flare of fight that flashes within him whenever she issues an order in a tone just shy of discipline, whenever she bites too hard or scratches to deep.

He is an officer. A gentleman. A being of immutable restraint. He cannot, _will not,_ give in to his baser predilections.

And for a time, he truly believes it.

Then Elizabeth requests they resume her swordsmanship lessons.

As they are now living together, James has no cogent reason to deny her, though he is somewhat unsettled by the curl of her lips and accompanying gleam in her eye when he agrees. Playing with fire pops into his mind, but he ignores it. They’ve done this before. It’s nothing he can’t handle.

This time, he is less grateful to be wrong.

While she has abstained from reproducing the marine’s uniform she’d once seen fit to so torment him with, Elizabeth still paints a tempting picture when they repair to the garden to practice, shedding whatever dress she’s been wearing and girding up her petticoats into makeshift trousers. Golden hair braided down her back, sleeves of her chemise rolled past her elbows, a smattering of freckles rising on her shoulders, his wife faces him down with all the ferocity and cunning she’d exhibited before. But now, it’s oh-so very different.

The rattle of steel shakes something loose inside him, the drumbeat of his heart becoming a rolling tympani in his ears. James feels raw, exposed, like he’s been scoured pink by salt spray. His limbs shake with the effort of holding back, not just battling the sudden surge of his own competitive streak but also his insistent itch to wrest the weapon from her hand and pin her to the ground.

But this internal struggle splits his concentration, and his wife is nothing if not an opportunist, unafraid to press any advantage, nor matter how unsporting. Chest heaving, the long line of her graceful neck glistening in the afternoon heat, Elizabeth finds an opening and forcibly disarms him, his sword skidding out of reach. James is frozen to the spot as her molten brown eyes bore into his. Then she licks her lips.

_Pirate,_ he thinks harshly as she rides him achingly slowly, the edge of her blade held to his throat, his hands twitching on her hips. He wants to mark her. Brand her. _Possess her._ But he will not.

Even as her grip slips in her ecstasy, and she marks him.

\---

Much later, James is reading in his office, attempting to catch up on his ever-increasing backlog, when Elizabeth appears in his peripheral. She pads up to him on bare feet and stops at his elbow, dressing robe open to her navel.

‘I believe you’ve read enough this evening.’

Without looking up, he turns a page and retorts, somewhat more testily than he’d meant to, ‘Have I?’

‘Yes. They say too much reading is bad for your health.’

Now he does look up, unable to garner her intention from her tone, and finds her expression equally unreadable, cast into shadow as it is by the flickering orange lamplight. ‘Who says that?’

‘I did. Just now.’ She reaches out and takes hold of the top of his book, and for a moment, James holds stubborn eye-contact, firm fingers resisting her gentle tug.

Then the moment passes, and he relents. ‘Very well. So long as you don’t lose-’

Elizabeth snaps the volume shut, defiant gaze never leaving his.

‘...my place.’

Her teeth flash in a smile just a hair shy of a snarl. ‘I have every confidence you will find it again.’

\---

The Change: that is what James comes to call it. A distinct shift in his and Elizabeth’s relationship that began the night she accidentally drew his blood, although _scented_ it would be more germane. The incident in his office was to be the first of many such encounters, contests that resulted in no contest, piffling little annoyances that warranted no rebuttal on his part. Things like sitting down at his desk to find everything moved just enough to be irksome or discovering the books in his library have been replaced out of order.

He never catches her in the act, and therefore, doesn’t deign to raise the issues, vexing as they might be. But he knows Elizabeth _knows_ what she is doing.

His eyes drill into the top of her head as she goes over the household finances at the dinner table across from him, sipping soup daintily from her spoon in between making notes.

‘The hibiscus plants have been blooming quite nicely. I’m considering adding a few more.’

‘As you say, my love.’

His reply is stiffer than he’d intended, and he swears he can hear the smirk she hides behind the rim of her wine glass.

\---

Next, the needling begins. Elizabeth picks pithy little fights, corrects his grammar, questions his motives and decisions. At first, this leaves James stunned into stupefaction, but it isn’t long before he is fairly chomping at the bit of his own pique, apologizing through gritted teeth and quitting the room rather than argue.

He supposes it was only a matter of time before being around one another so often led to petty marital squabbles, but somehow, it feels too deliberate on her part for him to chalk it up entirely to extended exposure. And there’s also the matter of their physical relationship. If Elizabeth were truly cross with him, it would be logical for her to avoid his bed in retaliation. But she doesn’t. To the contrary, she becomes ever more demanding. The dichotomy of her treatment of him is enough to make his head spin.

Perhaps he could just ask her what’s prompted this change. In fact, he probably _should._ But, if he’s honest, James knows the biggest reason he does not is his fear that something has gone wrong. And that it might be something that cannot be fixed. So he keeps his questions locked fast behind his lips. He can bear it. It will pass.

Then she takes her onslaught outside their home.

It baffles him, this metamorphosis. She makes jokes at his expense in front of people. Skirts the line of belittling him. Interrupts him when he’s speaking. _Disrespect!_ The officer in him roars. _Blatant insubordination!_

And, as if that weren’t enough, she cannot seem to keep her hands off him, recalcitrant in her refusal to behave. In the theater box at the opera. In the pews at church. It doesn’t matter. He’s come to dread taking her out in public. But how can he avoid it? They’re one of the most influential couples in Port Royal, hell, in all of the Caribbean! With _The Dauntless_ in for repairs, he’s grounded, completely at her mercy...of which there is little to be found.

But the worst part? The thing James hates most about the whole predicament? He doesn’t actually hate it at all. The dread is bracing. The provocation is arousing. The fire, the fury, the flagrancy...he _likes_ it. Or something close enough to liking he cannot tell the difference. It vexes him, having to confront this aspect of himself. More than he could ever admit. So he doesn’t, keeping that locked fast behind his lips as well.

Not for the first time, James entertains the idea of putting Elizabeth over his knee in punishment for her torment of him. His fantasies have become markedly rougher, to his great shame. His restraint has been worn down to a mere fraying thread, for she is unraveling him bit by bit with her undeniably willful offensive.

He is exasperated, tantalized, humiliated, and, above all else, _ravenous._

\---

At the end of June, the Fitzwarren’s host an extravagant gala to celebrate the knighting of Admiral Bellamy, who has traveled over from Nassau to attend, bringing his Lady wife along. Even at his best, James has never cared for balls, and he has been far from his best for weeks now. But, as the commanding officer of the garrison and the branch of the fleet anchored at Port Royal, he is duty-bound to be present, loathe though he may be to do so.

It’s not as if he dislikes the Admiral. The newly named Sir Bellamy is an amiable enough man, lauded for the iron of his fist and the quickness of his mind. However, the days of his glory are behind him, and he has grown thin of hair and hard of hearing in his advancing years, with a penchant for retelling the same old war stories to the point of tedium. James respects the man a great deal, but the usually fathomless well of his patience has all but run dry of late. He fears his ability to mask his current turmoil will prove insufficient.

But that is not the only difficulty ahead. All of the who’s who of Port Royal and neighboring settlements will be in attendance, with Weatherby Swann and Thomas Fitzwarren sharing the duties of hosting the event. As son-in-law of the Governor, James is twice obligated. And he will not be going alone.

Three months ago, the idea of showing up to such a soiree with Elizabeth on his arm would have thrilled James. Now it only fills him with tension.

He spends the entirety of the day of at Fort Charles with the excuse of making sure everything is perfect for the Admiral’s inspection the following morning. But, when the light starts to fade and the sun begins to dip below the horizon, James knows he has delayed long enough. It’s time to face this head-on. For good or ill.

\---

The ballroom is packed, just as he knew it would be, a veritable sea of expensive fabric and choking perfume. James’ stomach churns as his eyes stumble over the refreshments table, and he accepts a second glass of offered spirits to calm his nerves. He has already paid his respects to the Admiral and his wife, and is now lurking at the edge of the festivities until the instant it would no longer be considered impolite for him to leave.

He’s hiding, truth be told. Hoping to be passed over by the revelers in favor of more interesting diversions. But, it is not the other guests he is so avidly avoiding. No. It is his wife. And, completely in spite of himself, he has been drawn to her nonetheless, hugging the wall while nursing his gin as he catches glimpses of her through the amassed throng.

Elizabeth is inconceivably beautiful, even at a distance. Not just for the way her new rose colored gown compliments her features and form, but also for the freedom of her glittering smiles, the melody of her bountiful laughter. James feels half a boy again as he watches her perform, heart rending in his chest. He’s missed this somehow, the yearning. And the realization has him reaching for a third drink.

But when his gaze flits back to the crowd, liquid brown eyes lock onto his, and James knows he’s been caught. The cold kiss of adrenaline slithers up his spine as his wife excuses herself and saunters his way, the warm curl of her lips taking a more sinister aspect as she nears. There is a fluid sway in her step that betrays her insobriety, and James has the fleeting thought that it was foolish of him not to be more mindful of his own.

‘Husband,’ she purrs before plucking the empty glass from his raised hand and discarding it on a passing tray. ‘How long do you intend to tarry in the shadows?’

James clears his throat before retorting, ‘Until you deign to fetch me, dear wife.’

Her smirk only broadens at his brusque word choice. ‘Then consider yourself fetched. Now. Ask me to dance.’

He does, and they do. A courante, an allemande, and a minuet that are torture for the way her hands linger just a tad too long to be proper. James is nearly ready to put an end to it before the orchestra initiates a waltz, and Elizabeth gasps in delight, a sliver of the exuberant girl she used to be shining in her eyes. The waltz was always her favorite. For as long as he has known her. So James sighs, and leads her back to the dance floor for one more set.

\---

‘Rather stifling tonight,’ Elizabeth hums just loud enough for him to hear over the swell of the music. ‘Not usually my preference of sweaty pursuits.’

They’ve finished their dance and returned to his previous hiding place, fresh drinks in hand. ‘Isn’t it?’ James chuckles, momentarily forgetting to keep his guard up. By the time he’s seen the wicked spark in her eye, it’s too late.

‘No. I’d much rather the two of us were wearing far less clothing.’

James frowns, eyes darting from the daring neckline of her gown to the nearest guest to make sure they hadn’t heard. ‘I think the wine has loosened your tongue.’

Her answering grin is sinfully knowing. ‘Thinking about my tongue, are you?’

Now he is, God help him.

‘Would you like to know what _I’ve_ been thinking about?’

He should lie and say no. He should walk away. He does neither.

She reaches out and takes hold of his hand, lifts it between them, cradled in her own. She lightly explores each of his fingers before answering the question he’d intentionally not asked.

‘I’ve been thinking about these lovely fingers. How clever they are. How...dexterous. I’ve been thinking,’ she leans in close, breath fanning out across his neck. ‘How divine it is to have them buried inside me.’

James is paralyzed, struck dumb by the combination of the obscenity of her words and the alcohol singing through his veins. He looks straight ahead lest she spot the arousal in his eyes. She would no doubt take it as encouragement.

But she appears to be encouraged nonetheless.

‘You would start with one, find me tight, so very tight. But also wet. I’ve been soaking my thighs for you all evening, James. Since the first moment I laid eyes on you across the room. I’d beg you for more and you’d oblige, adding a second...a third. And I’d take it all, eager to feel you stretch me.’

His breathing has picked up, his heart hammering beneath his ribs. He has trouble swallowing past the lump in his throat. Her fingers skitter up the buttons of his frock coat, smooth over his shoulders. His eyes flit to where the Admiral is holding court not thirty feet away.

‘But even that wouldn’t be enough. You’d use your mouth next. I know you’ve been desperate to have the taste of me again. I’d gasp your name as I peak against your lips.’

She can’t say things like this. Not here. Not now. _Not ever._ James’ skin feels too tight. His fingers twitch at his sides.

‘I want you to slam me against the wall. I want to sink down on your cock. Are you hard for me now? Can you feel me rippling around you? Oh, James. I’m so achingly empty. I need you to fill me up. Will you? Will you bear me down and make me scream?’

James’ eyes burn as they slide down to meet hers. Sweat is beading on his brow, forging a path down between his shoulder blades. It feels like everyone is watching. He can’t take it anymore. Quick as a whip, he snatches her hand off his lapel and drags her away from the revelry, down the hall, and into the nearest vacant room. It turns out to be a rather impressive library, lit only by the light of the full moon slanting in through a wall of floor length windows.

He hauls her across the threshold and shuts the door soundly behind them. Only then does he release her, throwing aside her wrist like he’s been stung. ‘What in Christ’s name are you doing, Elizabeth?!’

‘Well, right now, I’m being scolded in the Fitzwarren’s library,’ she pouts, rubbing her wrist with her other hand. James almost feels guilty for treating her so roughly, but the sarcasm of her next words effectively chases the sentiment off. ‘Big of you to resist stooping to my level.’

‘I- you-’ James sucks in a deep, steadying breath through his nose and holds it while slowly counting to five, eyes screwed shut. When he opens them, Elizabeth has turned to face him, arms crossed over her chest, insolence radiating off her in waves. He wants to fuck it out of her. ‘You overstep, Elizabeth.’

‘And you never step at all.’

His brows lower. _What does that even mean?_

‘Out with it, then. I would have you speak your mind.’ The ridicule lacing her tone is too much. Something in James snaps.

‘Why?! Why are you doing this?! And what have I done to warrant such abuse?! Not just tonight, but for the past several weeks! You play a dangerous game, Elizabeth! My patience is not endless, nor is my restraint!’

Doesn’t she see how close he is to his breaking point? Doesn’t she see how tenuous his grip on his control has become?

‘I could brook such careless flouting of convention in private, but you have sought to humiliate me not just in front of our peers, but also my superiors. _The Admiral_ is here, Elizabeth! Why can’t you just behave?!’

Elizabeth sniffs, seemingly unmoved by his tirade. ‘Why should I? It’s not as though you’ll punish me.’

_...what?_ Her choice of words steals the rage right out from under him, leaving him unbalanced and confused. Punishment? Surely, she cannot think he would _ever..._

Bits and pieces of the past month flash into his mind. The teasing. The prodding. The fighting. And suddenly, it all clicks into place. It isn’t mockery...it’s a _challenge._ It has been all along. Elizabeth has been attempting to goad him into picking up the gauntlet she’d thrown weeks ago. And he, fool that he is, has been resolutely resisting her. Which has only caused her to push harder.

How blind he's been.

_No longer._

James reaches out and locks the door.

‘I think that’s exactly what you want me to do, Mrs. Norrington.’

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...scene! Poor James. He really is out of his depth, isn't he? Good thing Elizabeth is there to <strike>torment</strike> _guide_ him. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your continued readership and support. All comments and feedback are immensely appreciated, and, if you'd like, you can also find me over on [my tumblr](https://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/). I do so love hearing from each and every one of you. ♡


	3. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elizabeth gets increasingly concerned.

Following the trail of scattered jasmine blossoms, Elizabeth Swann passes row after row of eagerly watching faces. She has become intimately familiar with the guest list, having been thoroughly involved in the planning of the affair, but still she could not, in that moment, differentiate one from the other as they slid by in her peripheral. Nor could she be bothered to spare them so much as a glance. Not while _he_ is waiting for her, studying her approach with a reverence bordering on terror. Her oldest friend, her first and only love, her _James-_ in awe of her by every definition. Gazing at her as though she were some old testament apparition. A messenger from the heavens. A flaming wheel of eyes.

Such esteem from such a man, a man who has faced war, death, and worse in service to the crown, it is dizzying. It is exhilarating. It is...troubling.

When has she been given this power? And what is she to do with it?

Elizabeth smiles. There will be time for all that later. For now...

‘Breathe,’ she mouths soundlessly.

And he does.

\---

Everything is just as she’d pictured it. Right down to the matching boutonnières pinned to the lapels of the string quartet. If asked, Elizabeth would cite her father as the reason for the opulence of reception, which wouldn’t exactly be a lie since any attempts she’d made at modest designs were met with a scoff or a pout. Weatherby Swann had been determined that his only daughter must have the most memorable wedding of the decade, and his stubborn refusal to give even an inch on this left no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind they are related by blood.

Truth be told, however, she had not been so above the indulgence as she would like to claim. The prospect of making a bit of a spectacle had been uniquely thrilling, the act of planning everything, even the minutia, had given her an outlet for her mounting restlessness. Why should she not take advantage of the opportunity to publicly celebrate that which she has been so long awaiting?

James. Her husband. Hers as she is his. As she has _always_ been his. Since the day he found her sketching in her favorite tree.

Finally. _Finally._

No more distance. No more secrets. Their vows had been to share everything, and she means to collect. To have all of him. To belong to him. To take on the world together. His ambition and intelligence married to her tenacity and cunning? Why, they will be more than formidable. They will be _unstoppable._

A veritable procession of well-wishers occupies her attention from the moment Elizabeth enters the gleaming ballroom. Guests, both humble and influential, fairly line up to bestow their congratulations upon her, and a great many of them are more free with their compliments than they had ever previously been.

_How intriguing,_ she muses as Mrs. Dunham, Mrs. Randall, and Lady Ellis take turns extolling her achievements to her face, brimming over with convivial smiles and invitations to future events. Time will tell if the offers prove genuine.

By the time she is approached by her dearest friend in all of Port Royal, Rebecca King née Scott, Elizabeth is more than a little relieved to be drawn aside for a private conversation.

‘A gift,’ Becca simpers as she presses a satin wrapped parcel into Elizabeth’s hands. ‘For the happy couple.’

‘What is it? A book?’

Mrs. King’s answering grin is sinful. ‘Research. Of the illustrated variety.’

Research, indeed. A cursory inspection reduces them both to unladylike giggling. Only Becca would dare to present such a vulgar thing in front of the entire crowd. At least the cover is plain enough. Elizabeth tucks the volume away into her skirts and decides it’s high time her husband asks her to dance.

And they do. They dance and dance, and Elizabeth is sure she’s never been so perfectly happy in all of her life. The unmasked adoration in his eyes is almost as intoxicating as the superb French champagne her father had imported by the barrel for the occasion, and she is hopelessly drunk on his regard, tingling down to the tips of her toes in anticipation for when she will finally have him alone.

_I want you,_ she pronounces to him in her mind, willing him to hear the intensity of her unspoken words as he leads her through a minuet. _Laid bare. Stripped to your bones. I want to see you, James. I want to be seen._

Then the dance ends, and a new one begins. And Elizabeth resolves to do whatever she must to make it so.

\---

James is very quiet during the carriage ride home. Even more so than is usual. Back rigid, fists balled on his knees, stealing glances when he believes her to be looking elsewhere, he is far more the picture of a timid bride than she. Is this truly the same man who, not a year ago, so sensuously disrobed for her in his office on _The Dauntless?_ The same man who so proudly bears the accolade of ‘The Scourge of Piracy?’ The same man who nearly beat a stranger to death for insulting her virtue? It is not abnormal for him to be reserved. Nor is it out of character for him to be taciturn. But this…

As long as she has known him, James has always been the model of composure and decorum. To many, he is as unflappable and unreadable as a marble statue. But not to Elizabeth. Her ability to interpret his subdued body language and sedate facial expressions has been honed by years of careful study. And this agitation, she has seen him in such a state but once before. The day he expected her to turn down his proposal.

The recurrence perturbs her, to say the least. It will not do.

‘Move over, James.’

And he does.

—-

By the time they’ve arrived, the deifying smile from before has returned to his face, and the enthusiasm with which he rushes to head off the footman floods her with a familiar smoldering warmth. With titillating ease, he snatches her from the seat and carries her up the portico staircase. They are only just over the threshold before she makes her intentions clear, capturing his lips with her own.

If he’s surprised by her impatience, he shouldn’t be. Now is not the time for shyness. They’ve been circling one another for years. No longer. She means to have him immediately, pushing the frock coat from his broad shoulders and knocking the hat from his head without removing her mouth from his. After lobbing his wig somewhere behind her, she buries her fingers in his glorious hair and begins herding him upstairs.

Ultimately, all of Becca’s scandalous advice for her wedding night proves obsolete, for once his burning hands are actually upon her naked flesh, Elizabeth forgets how to do all but _need._ James seems keen to take his time, unhurried as he unlaces her stays with agonizing deliberation. It is so like him to conduct such a measured exploration while she can’t find it in her power to be anything but hungry.

‘Next time,’ she promises, and he finally appears to understand, allowing her to drag him to bed unopposed. The acquiescence pleases her, but not nearly as much as the magnificent stretch of his fingers curling within her or the scorching caress of his lips across the underside of her breasts.

There is a flash, a flicker of something hot and razor-sharp in his darkened eyes when she unwittingly yanks on his hair in her ecstasy, but it is gone by the time she has come to her senses. No matter. There will be time to investigate that later. For now, she will positively self-immolate if he doesn’t fill her with his cock tout suite.

So she tells him exactly that.

The resulting shock on his face fades into something very like a smirk, and the low rumble of his voice sends a frisson crackling down her spine and straight to her core.

‘As you say, my love.’

\---

For the next three days, Elizabeth has James entirely to herself. And it is _exquisite._ He proves to be a supremely capable lover: skilled with his fingers and tongue, ever conscious of her pleasure, fitting inside her like he was created for it. Or perhaps she was. Or perhaps they both were. Whatever the case, the end result is the same. And Elizabeth could not be more satisfied...while at the same time being anything but. It is very possible she will never be able to have enough of him. The thought amuses her.

As does the book Becca gifted her. While obscene, particularly in its attention to detail, the knowledge held within its pages makes her feel more prepared. Powerful, even. As though it were a secret map of enemy lines. James is hardly an enemy, but his proficiency in the area speaks of  
experience Elizabeth has never had. And she likes to imagine her ‘research’ goes some distance toward evening the playing field.

Her husband may feign sternness or shock at her inspired suggestions, but there is no judgement present in his inevitable surrender. Only captivation. The glitter in his incalculably green eyes gives him away. And she loves him all the more for it.

It is a uniquely galvanizing thing, to be so cherished. And Elizabeth is generous in her reciprocation.

She is not the only one to be generous, however. 

During the long year James had been gone, the one after which he had sought to officially court her, Elizabeth had missed him terribly. In an effort to lift her spirits and feel closer to him, she had eventually showed up on his doorstep, basket of fresh pastries in arm, and introduced herself to the housekeeper, Mrs. Howe. Without so much as asking for an explanation, Mrs. Howe had brought her in, and put her to work. Odd jobs done in tandem with the household staff. Polishing and dusting and such. Her favorite was always helping in the gardens. Something about tending flowers made the sucking pain of James’ absence easier to bear. No doubt he would be horrified if he ever found out, but in addition to intuition and efficiency, Mrs. Howe is also a paragon of discretion.

That discretion is not the least of her many virtues put to good use in the wake of her employer’s marriage. Thrilled as she is to finally have the entirety of James at her disposal, Elizabeth hasn’t exactly been careful of the staff, at least not to James’ level of preference. But his anxiety over their sensibilities is pointless, for Elizabeth knows that there is not a soul in his employ that doesn’t delight in his happiness. And Mrs. Howe flat out tells her as much.

‘No harm in the girls learning to be a bit more vigilant,’ the housekeeper assures when Elizabeth privately apologizes for stumbling upon one of the maids unawares in a rather lurid state of undress. ‘These things are bound to happen.’

‘Yes, I imagine so. Still...’

‘The Commodore is a fine man. And a considerate master. But he worries too much. And you? You make him happy. As such, you make us all happy. Chase that happiness, my lady. I can think of no two people who more deserve it.’

And chase it Elizabeth does. Until she is breathless and weak at the knees.

\---

Eventually, James has to return to work, and Elizabeth is left with the monumental task of finding adequate distraction to occupy herself during the long hours he is away. She begins by rising when he does, wrapping a lunch to send with, and seeing him off with a kiss. Then she goes straight back to bed for another few hours of sleep. Her plans can keep until the sun is out in earnest.

When she does finally deem to start her day, Elizabeth ventures into the adjoining room: the one given to her as her own, the one with the bed she never intends to use. Here, she dresses with the help of her ladies maid, Estrella, who had come with her from her father’s house after her wedding. She selects a light blue day dress of Indian cotton, forgoes panniers in favor of a set of lovingly embroidered pockets she’d received as a wedding gift from her cousin, Julia, and opts to braid her own hair down her back in a single queue before pinning it at the nape of her neck. So armored, she gives her reflection in the full-length glass an approving nod. 

She’s ready.

Mrs. Howe is waiting for her in front hall, flanked on either side by a pair of young housemaids. Elsie, a bright, cheerful sort of girl with pale eyes and even paler skin, has been with the household since James acquired it. The other, Madeline, was brought on within the past year. A replacement, she explains as she tucks an unruly walnut colored curl behind her ear, only for it to spring back out almost immediately. ‘For my elder sister, who has since married and moved on.’

Elizabeth purses her lips as the two maids dip into a tandem curtsy at her appearance, but holds her tongue. The formality may chafe, but there shall be ample opportunity to express her preferences later. For now, it’s time to meet the rest.

And meet them she does, using the remainder of the morning and afternoon to personally look into the eyes of every person employed by the Norrington household. _Her_ household now. She shakes hands, inspects workspaces, gathers useful information, and takes down copious notes in a nondescript logbook she has brought along for just such a purpose.

Francis, the cook, is soft of body and demeanor while her sister, and assistant, Sarah, is all hard angles and even harder stares. Shadwell, the butler, is tall and reserved, with a fatherly gleam in his eye and a practiced expertise at telling stories. The mulatto head gardener, George, is handsome and solemn, and offers her a sparing smile as he recalls her from before, when she’d been elbow deep in his flowerbeds in an effort to distract herself from missing James. Matthew, the groom is a whole head shorter than her, yet with a personality that towers triple his height and bushy red eyebrows that match his stablehand and son Oliver’s unruly mop of hair.

There are others too, laundresses and coachmen and delivery boys, and Elizabeth records comments and suggestions made, birthdays and family names, along with first impressions and short descriptions. Her crew, she fancies with no small degree of felicity. _Hers._

Once James returns, she sets everything aside to ambush him in the front hall and tow him upstairs to ravish him stupid, but the next day she’s back at it again, reacquainting herself with the staff she’d met as a temporary addition during James’ year of absence and establishing herself with the others by laboring beside them. She pores over ledgers, accounts, and menus, fills her head with numbers and lists, answers invitations and queries delivered via post, and, on the whole, makes her mark as the newly appointed Captain of the good ship Norrington.

James may be Commodore, but when it comes to running the household, _she_ has the real authority. The satisfaction this gives her is surprising, as she had never expected being a wife to feel so...uniquely empowering.

And she discovers this empowerment also follows her outside the dominion of their home.

The matrons of the island, the very same ones who used to patronize or ignore her, now laud her, curry her favor, ask her advice. Elizabeth has, seemingly overnight, become a trend-setter. If she should wear a certain color or neckline to an event, the next one she attends the style is everywhere. If she should be seen frequenting a certain shop, it is not long before they have a flood of orders to fill. If she should seek to uplift a certain social pariah, invitations from other society ladies are soon to follow.

And not just the ladies. The men of Port Royal hearken to her wisdom as well.

The Governor’s daughter, for all her pomp and importance, was not someone to be heeded. But the Commodore’s Wife? She’s allowed to be intelligent. She’s allowed to be witty. She’s allowed to gamble and tease and speak of politics in public. And she does, seated in congress with all manner of prominent figures as they hang on her every word.

This deviation is astonishing, though not unwelcome. And Elizabeth wields her newfound influence as effectively as any blade, championing her own private causes while swathed in armor forged of strategic magnanimity and frothing cream-colored lace. She is ruthless in her pursuit of social justice, hiding her ambitions behind dazzling smiles and adroit diplomacy.

Before, she may have been elevated as a figure of beauty and virtue, but no one actually cared about what the Governor’s daughter truly felt or wanted. Now...now everyone knows the Commodore’s Wife is not to be trifled with.

And no one seems to know it better than the Commodore himself.

Which had delighted her beyond all reason...at first. But, despite the utter bliss of watching him sleep on the pillow next to her as she memorizes the rhythmic sound of his breathing, despite the absolute privilege of being permitted to touch him, casually or otherwise (a caress here, a playful poke there), despite the staggering joy brought on by even the most domestic facets of their shared life...there is something _disquieting_ about the way James has ceded any and all control to her.

She takes the lead, but he never fights her for it. Even though she knows fighting is in his nature. It makes her suspect that he’s holding back. And that suspicion concerns her, for their vows had been to give one another everything. _She_ is. But is _he?_

To test her theory, Elizabeth wraps herself up like a present to be opened, in delicate flowing underthings of silk and ribbons and satin. She lays her body out like a heathen sacrifice, inviting and trusting, hoping to inspire in her husband some instinct to defile. But his trembling fingers are achingly gentle, as if he is perpetually requesting permission she’d given him long ago.

This further disturbs her, for James is not, and has never been _gentle._ Nor is he soft-spoken. When he enters a room, he commands it. Friend and foe alike. It is one of the many traits that has always drawn her to him. He’s courteous, to be sure. Even kind, though he is careful who he allows to know it. But he is not gentle. Never that.

So Elizabeth tries a different tack. She tells him exactly what she wants and how she wants it, leaving no room for confusion or misunderstanding. _More. Harder. Faster._ She chokes on pleas of _Let go, James._ She scores lines down his back with her fingernails. Bites his lip. Pulls his hair.

This method bears fruit in the form of hissed expletives and ragged moans, but it is the spark of defiance that flares in his eyes at such rough treatment that truly interests her. Especially how he snatches it away every time she gets a glimpse.

It’s maddening. She can order him to touch her, and he will. She can command him take her, and he’ll obey. But...it’s only obedience. And while obedience has its moments…

Elizabeth craves rebellion.

She craves mutiny.

\---

Subtlety isn’t working. Nor is transparency. Nor are any of Elizabeth’s endeavors to get at the piece of himself her husband is keeping from her. She’s starting to wonder...was it ever there at all? Or was she imagining a side to him she had wanted to be real? Married life is not at all what she thought it would be. And she’s been wrong about so much already. Could she have been wrong about him too? Could she be prodding for a version of him that doesn’t exist?

‘James?’

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Am I what you wanted in a wife?’

He pauses, arm half out of his coat sleeve, and pins her with searching green eyes. They stand that way for a moment, in the places they always do when she sees him off in the morning, before he quietly asks, ‘What’s prompted this?’

‘I…nothing really,’ Elizabeth hedges and feels foolish for it. It’s been so long since she’s felt the need to be careful around him. ‘I suppose I simply want to know if you’re happy.’

The breath he releases before kissing her forehead smacks of relief. ‘Never more so. As you are happy, so am I.’

He leaves before she can muster the nerve to speak the words bottlenecking on her tongue. So she instead whispers them into the dawn air atop the portico staircase.

‘I’m not happy. Not anymore.’

\---

Over supper that night, after spending the day in a fog of irksome melancholy, Elizabeth requests they resume her swordsmanship lessons. James’ contemplative expression takes on an apprehensive aspect that he swallows down with some claret before agreeing, ‘I could arrange for that.’

And he does.

And it changes _everything._

Out in the garden, sequestered away behind the neatly trimmed shrubbery, Elizabeth is at once proven right in a most demonstrable way. James _is_ holding back.

The ring of steel against steel sings through her veins like fine brandy, and something jagged and feral forces its way out of her lungs in the form of unbidden laughter. The unmitigated panic that widens James’ eyes in response begins to transform with every parry and thrust. And there he is, the man who’s built a career on hunting pirates, the man who would have single-handedly hacked Barbossa’s crew to pieces, the man who, on behalf of her honor, nearly beat another to death and left him in an alley. He is blazing through the cracks in James’ crumbling facade like a wildfire, with all the smoke and heat to match. And the closer her assault brings her, the more keen Elizabeth is to burn.

She wants the clash. She wants the struggle. She wants jaws that bite and claws that catch. James is a dangerous man. Being on the other end of his blade could easily be a terrifying thing, and, for many an enemy, it has been. But not so for Elizabeth. And certainly not now.

He’s straining to concentrate, chasing the darkness from his eyes, only to have it creep back in. She can practically taste the fury coming off him, like electricity in the atmosphere before lightning strikes. But he doesn’t strike. So _she_ does, feinting to his left before darting in to knock the sword from his grip and send it skittering across the grass.

The glare he levels at her then, oh, how it turns her insides molten. From the smoldering in her belly to the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears to the tingling in her extremities, every inch of her body is crying out for him. Her thighs are slick with it.

Elizabeth licks her lips. Then she is upon him.

_Fight back,_ she thinks viciously, riding his cock with deliberate slowness, the edge of her blade held to his throat as he glowers up at her. _Show me your teeth, James._

When she peaks, the seizing jerk of her muscles causes her to accidentally cut him. She tosses the sword aside and dips to suckle the blood from the column of his neck. The tang of it fills her mouth as he spills inside her with a growl, the hands spanning her hips squeezing hard enough to bruise.

_I see you, James. I fucking see you._

\---

James doesn’t come to bed on his own that evening, brooding in his office long after the hour he usually retires. As he is a creature of habit and strict adherence to schedule, Elizabeth reads this truancy for what it surely is: a slight. She can either roll over, put out the candle, and sulk herself to sleep, or go and fetch him herself. She chooses the latter.

Peering through the crack in the door, Elizabeth watches her husband read in his favorite chair, the glow of the lamplight painting an orange stripe down the front of her dressing robe. His brows are drawn in a severe frown, and she notes that the hand that is not holding his book aloft is fisted on his rapidly bouncing knee. Another inconsistency. James is not a man given to nervous tics. 

He’s angry. Or something close enough it translates into anger on his face. And, what a coincidence, for Elizabeth is angry too. Angry that he’s been hiding part of himself from her, angry that his evasion had caused her to doubt her own intuition, angry that he’d forced her to search him out, not just tonight in this physical way, but ever since the beginning of their relationship. It’s always been she who must reach across the aisle. But such a tactic only works if the other party is willing to parley, and James has steadfastly resisted her attempts to meet him where he is.

Very well. Their duel in the garden, it has given her all the irrefutable proof she needs. If she must fight fire with fire, so be it. She will push harder. She will dig deeper. She will propel this veiled side of him into the open and have done with it. She’s just as stubborn as he is. Just as dauntless.

And she refuses to beg James to allow her to know him.

Thus resolved, Elizabeth opens her robe to her navel, and then pushes through the door.

\---

She starts small, paltry things, like making his tea a shade too weak or mismatching his gloves so that he must rifle through the drawer for the true mate. She nudges all the items on his desk slightly to the right, leaves his inkwells uncovered so all the ink dries out, and generally makes such a nuisance of herself that any _sensible_ person would inevitably be annoyed into some manner of confrontation.

But James is beyond sense, it would seem. His brow may furrow, his nostrils may flare, his eyes may flash, but he utters nary a cross word. So she must push harder.

Next, she initiates the practice of being overly critical: picking silly little arguments over trivialities or tersely correcting him in front of the staff. This succeeds in making him more visibly upset, and yet provokes him into nothing but brusque apologies after which he flees the scene. _Flight!_ As though he were _ever_ the type of man to back down from a fight in which he knew he was in the right!

She pairs this wave of her offensive with becoming increasingly demanding in their marital bed; goading, teasing, preying on his competitive streak. James likes to win as much as she ever has, but she means to come out the victor. She brands him as hers, knows the neck beneath his cravat is littered with evidence of her ardor. There are bite marks on his shoulders and thighs. There are scratches down his arms and chest. She throws all modesty to the wind, explicit in her whispered taunts and commands, whether they are in private or not.

But James never rejects her. He never rebukes or chastises her. Oh, he may glare at her. He may grind his teeth and storm off. His displeasure has become a palpable thing, a blast of hot air she feels in her bones. It lingers behind him when he quits a room, like overpowering perfume. But, still, he does not fight back.

It’s because he desires it, she has come to understand. He desires the roughness. And what’s more, he is very clearly defying the urge to return her savagery. She can smell the restraint on his breath, can taste it in his sweat. _Why?_ Why is he so vehement about denying himself the freedom of letting go? Does he think she will judge him? Is he judging _her?_

Either way, it’s too late to ask. And Elizabeth isn’t certain that even if she did, James would give her a straight answer. However, as it is, they’re careening toward some end at top speed...which the twisting in her gut tells her is a cliff of their own making. If they fall, they fall together. But she isn’t ready to consign them to that fate just yet.

Finally, desperately, she goes to Rebecca King for advice, recounting all in an ardent eruption of emotion that drags tears of frustration from her eyes.

Her friend remains uncharacteristically placid during her tirade, silently filling her glass whenever it empties. Then, when she is finished, Becca leans forward, folds her hands upon the table, and adopts a wicked smirk.

‘What is the one thing the Commodore demands above all else? What is the one thing he will not abide?’

‘Piracy?’ Elizabeth responds with a flippant eye roll before draining her third goblet of wine.

‘Nay.’ Becca’s grin only grows more sinister. ‘Disrespect, my dear Lizzie. It’s time for a bit of blatant insubordination.’

\---

Elizabeth is drunk. Drunk and disappointed and determined to disguise both truths by plastering a benevolent smile over her face and pretending as if this ball is just like all the others. But it isn’t. Not because the celebration itself is so important, Elizabeth couldn’t care less about Admiral what’s-his-name being knighted, but because tonight she means to end the terrible game she and her husband have been playing. How? She has no idea. Hence the inebriation. But she is confident in her ability to improvise. An opportunity will present itself.

She knows when James arrives. Not because she sees him. But because she _feels_ him. Feels his eyes on her even if she cannot spot him in the amassed throng. They rake over her again and again at some distance, and she puts on a show worth watching, practiced poise taking over as she makes a performance out of milling with the other guests. But it’s not for them. It’s for him. As it has always been. The act puts her in mind of the mandatory distance that once yawned between them before they began courting. Of the yearning.

She does not miss it.

Eventually, she snares him, capturing his gaze from across the crowded ballroom. He holds scorching eye contact over the rim of his upturned glass as she sashays in his direction. There is a longing there that fills her with a familiar warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol coursing through her system.

She instructs him to ask her to dance.

And he does.

It is achingly sweet, for all the friction that has come between them, and Elizabeth is overcome by the dizzying realization that she forgot what it was like to have James lead. Even in something so simple as a dance. To move through the steps in tandem, to be of one mind and body, it was all she ever wanted. And now, look what they’ve become. It’s unbearable.

When he takes her in his arms for the waltz, she knows it is only to humor her, but even that concession has the tinkling shards of her heart clattering against her ribs. Their dance. Their _first_ dance. It was a waltz as well. She had chosen it. And he had led.

Her husband. Her lover. Her _James._ She wants him back. The only man she has ever loved. _She wants him back._

But they can’t go back. Not to how things were. Change is the only option.

There’s nothing for it. This ends tonight.

One way or another.

\---

‘Out with it, then. I would have you speak your mind.’

That’s what she’s been angling for all along, isn’t it? For James to actually tell her what’s wrong? Perhaps she’s a fool for laying it out like this, for he could easily dodge this time as well, but the sarcasm in her tone is forced. _Please, James. Please…_

There is a tic in his jaw, a twitch of his lip, and James snaps like a taut line in a storm.

‘Why?! Why are you doing this?! And what have I done to warrant such abuse?!’ He is shouting, heedless of who might hear, outrage pouring off him in waves that wash over her where she is standing across the room.

‘You play a dangerous game, Elizabeth! My patience is not endless, nor is my restraint!’

_His_ patience? What of hers? Is he really so blind to her feelings? His _restraint_ is the entire problem!

‘I could brook such careless flouting of convention in private, but you have sought to humiliate me not just in front of our peers, but also my superiors. _The Admiral_ is here, Elizabeth! Why can’t you just behave?!’

Behave? _Behave?_ It is so grotesquely comical, she almost laughs. So very close to the heart of the matter, while still missing it spectacularly...she supposes it shouldn’t surprise her. But the passion of his speech is surprising. As is hope it inspires within her.

‘Why should I? It’s not as though you’ll punish me.’ The words tumble from her lips before she can stop them. A piteous challenge. A gauntlet thrown. A clumsy, last-ditch attempt. _Fight me, James. Let go._

There is a prolonged silence as a myriad of expressions flit across his usually guarded face. Confusion. Disbelief. Hurt. Then...understanding takes root and begins to bloom. She watches it melt the accusation held in the tightness of his jaw and shift the belligerence from his stance.

His eyes fall closed, and when they reopen, the wrath has disappeared. Instead, there is only...determination? No..._hunger._ Elizabeth’s stomach flips.

James reaches out and locks the door.

‘I think that’s exactly what you want me to do, Mrs. Norrington.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your continued readership and for your patience as I worked on this installment. I'd like to believe it was worth the wait! ;)
> 
> Have some thoughts? Want to share them? I would love to hear from you! Leave a comment or hop on over to [my tumblr](https://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/) for a chat! 
> 
> Only one chapter left, and I promise it shall put that E rating to good use! So worry not! I shall return before the end of the year with even more Norribeth smut!
> 
> Until then, my darlings!~


	4. Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elizabeth gets exactly what she wants.

Muffled reports of the ballroom revelry seep around the cracks in the double doors to the Fitzwarren’s library. Over a hundred primped and preening souls are drinking and dancing and making merry in a boiling mire of lavish evening wear and pungent perfume the next wing over. But they may as well be on another continent for all the heed Elizabeth pays them.

Beams from the full moon spill through the drawn drapes anointing the floor-length windows behind her, casting a ghostly pallor across everything they illuminate. But even in this ashen wash, James’ gaze burns like a beacon. Without breaking eye contact, he pulls off his dress gloves one finger at a time, punctuating the task with deliberate silence. Then he slaps them into his free hand.

‘Come here, Elizabeth.’

Calm. Commanding. This is an order. It slithers down her spine and coils low in her gut. She makes no move to obey.

‘Do not make me repeat myself.’

Another order. Softly spoken, but threaded with iron, tinged with the promise of retribution. It floods her with desire. And, more than that, a most urgent curiosity. How, exactly, does he intend to coerce her? The question keeps her rooted to the spot.

James links his hands behind his back and gives her a contemplative once-over that sets her blood to a simmer. She’s flushed, she knows, and not just from the cumulative spirits she’s imbibed throughout the evening. But surely the same light that has so highlighted her husband has left her own features in shadow. She is grateful for the concealment, for her suspense must be plainly written on her face.

Then he takes a single step forward, and without thinking, Elizabeth jolts back an equal distance, belying her feigned composure. James’ lips curl into an answering smirk. Her tacit bluff has been called.

_Very well, James. If you want me, come and claim me._

Elizabeth bolts, scurrying into the protective darkness provided by the towering rows of bookcases. She has the advantage of being on familiar ground, having whiled away hours and hours of her adolescence within these walls as a guest. From the floor-to-ceiling bays requiring a rolling ladder to reach the topmost volumes, to the metalwork spiraling staircase leading up to the mezzanine, to the glass-covered exhibits boasting rare literary treasures from around the world, impressive would be a conservative description. There is more than enough room to get lost in. More than enough room to hide.

Only once she is sufficiently concealed behind the Greek poetry, does Elizabeth stop to see how James has reacted to her unceremonious flight. The answer is: hardly at all. Other than angling to watch her, he’s seemingly remained in the same place, hands still obscured behind his back. A full minute passes like an eon before he finally moves. And then it is back toward the door...where he slides the key from the lock, and drops it into his coat pocket with a flourish.

Short of breaking a window, there is no other entrance to the library. Nor exit. If Elizabeth means to truly escape him, she’ll have to lift the key from him. Somehow.

With measured, premeditated steps, James approaches one of the angled wingbacks by the desk, and shrugs out of his frock coat, draping it carefully across the back. Back to the wall, he presents Elizabeth with an unobscured view as he doffs his hat and unpins his wig, placing them in the seat. He runs a hand through his exposed hair, and her fingers itch to do the same, which was his aim, no doubt. She bites her lip as he unhurriedly unties the knot in his cravat and removes it with a quick jerk, unveiling the column of his neck in a manner that puts her in mind of a time he’d done this before. But back then, in his office on _The Dauntless,_ he’d been halting in his movements. Unsure. Not the case now. He is radiating an almost threatening sensuality as he rolls the sleeves of his shirt past his elbows.

There is a metallic clink as he unbuckles his sword belt and adds it to the pile. Then, he smooths down the front of his waistcoat and turns his sharp gaze toward where she is hiding. Elizabeth has to swallow down the sudden surge of adrenaline that lodges in her throat as he follows after her.

Elizabeth hardly dares to breathe as James stalks past the end of the row she’s crouched in, and belatedly thinks to pluck off her shoes, mindful that the clacking of her heels would alert him to her location. Thus muted, she creeps backward on silk clad toes, alcohol fogged mind whirring as she attempts to formulate some semblance of a plan.

James’ actions have all been intentional. The parameters have been set. He made sure she saw him move the key. Therefore, if she gets to it first, she wins. 

On the one hand, such an unexpected retaliation from James is exactly what she’d been hoping for. She could let him catch her and find out just how he means to punish her. But on the other, the spark of his reprisal has lit the fuse of her competitive nature in the worst of ways. To say nothing of the instinctual fight or flight response his hunting for her has inspired. The tiny hairs on her arms stand on end. Her chest is heavy and buoyant all at once. Her senses have heightened as they only do in combat. And it feels _good._

Winning would feel _even better._

Elizabeth sidles around the corner of the shelf she’s been hugging, cognizant of James’ presence on the opposite side. He tracking her somehow. Prowling in silence. But his path has removed him from hers, and she now nearly has a straight shot back to the chair where he has laid out his things so neatly. A smug smile splits her lips at the thought of the look on his face as he’s informed he’ll have to redress in solitude. Then, when they return home, she can...she’ll..._shit._

The hem of her gown has snagged on something. Even though her eyes have adjusted, she still can’t find what’s snared her. She tugs gently, trying not to make noise, but it remains stuck fast. The dull thump of a footstep snaps her eyes up, and she sees James rounding the corner not five feet away. Dress be damned, there’s no time. She tears loose with a jagged rip that rends the echoing quiet, and his dark gaze darts to hers, turning her blood to ice in her veins. But she’s not caught yet. Oh, no. Elizabeth chucks one shoe, then the other at him, all the while doubling back to put a wide reading table between them. He easily dodges her projectiles, and comes at her steadily, the surety of his movements a stark comparison to her own near-giddy maneuvers.

Once he is across the table from her, she’s close enough to observe the predatory gleam in his eyes. Like he wants to devour her whole. He smiles, and her heart stutters. Her stomach flutters. He’s _enjoying_ this.

And he thinks he’s won.

It will not do.

Elizabeth fakes to the right, then left, then gives the whole table a sound shove, sending a pile of books toppling down on him. It buys her all the time she needs.

In a flurry of fluttering skirts, Elizabeth dashes into the moonlight, not daring to glance back where she can hear James pursuing her even as her instincts demand it. She skids to a halt at the wingback and, in one fluid gesture, whips the sword from James’ scabbard and wheels on him. He stops just out of reach.

Her chest is heaving. Her eyes are wild. Her face twisted in a sneer. She reforms it into a self-satisfied smile, giving the sword a little shake. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

James obeys, but his expression is anything but defeated. She decides not to read too much into it, and begins rifling through his discarded clothing with her free hand.

‘While this has been fun, I think it’s high time I take my leave. Perhaps you’ll have better luck next round.’

He raises an eyebrow at her conciliatory words just as she finds his pocket with questing fingers. But...all that’s inside is a stained, clumsily embroidered kerchief. Recognition pokes at her mind, but it’s interrupted by James clearing his throat.

She looks up at him accusingly, and he slowly reaches into his waistcoat pocket and produces the key.

‘Looking for this?’

Sleight of hand? From James? Will the wonders never cease? Elizabeth hopes her delight doesn’t show on her face. She still means to come out of this the victor, after all. And she still has a weapon.

She points said weapon directly at his heart. ‘I’ll be having that key now, James.’

‘Or what?’ He counters teasingly. ‘You’ll slit my throat?’ He takes a step closer, voice lowering as he adds, ‘Cut out my tongue?’ Another step. ‘Carve open my chest and rip out my heart?’ The way he says the last part is odd, like there’s some deeper meaning to it, though she has no idea what it is. The tip of her blade is now almost right up against the fabric of his waistcoat, and there is a visible challenge in his eyes. ‘You’re welcome to try.’

Not to be intimidated, Elizabeth raises the swordpoint up to his chin. ‘Give. Me. The. Key.’

His brow arches, the preamble to a smile that doesn’t have the chance to make a full appearance. Quick as a wink, James ducks out of her range, and her answering sweep misses him by an ample margin. She sallies after him as he veers toward the grand marble fireplace, its yawning mouth full of inky darkness. His intention strikes her a moment too late, and her attempt to head him off comes up short. James gets there first and rounds on her, the fireplace poker turning her thrust with a resounding metallic ring. Then he drops back into an en garde stance. The smirk in his eyes is insufferable. Elizabeth resolves to divest him of both it and his makeshift weapon.

Which proves more difficult than it has been in the past. Her evening wear seems determined to undermine every action: her myriad of skirts tangling around her legs, her silk stockings slipping across the floor, her satin gloves compromising her grip on the hilt. And James may not be using the entirety of his strength, but neither is he holding back: making her follow him, forcing her in circles, entirely aware of the handicap her gown provides. He doesn’t attack, only parries, deftly blocking her every advance with an almost puckish mien. Like he is toying with her.

Elizabeth is not accustomed to being toyed with.

So even as she finds this side of him to be infuriatingly enticing, frustration is bleeding from her every pore. It’s so very different from their previous duel. This time James is the one who is assured and calculating while it is she who is rending apart at the seams. Her teeth bare in a snarl as she attempts to trap him against one of the nearest shelves, but he adeptly evades her wild swipe which sends a row of volumes crashing to the floorboards. 

James laughs as she regains her balance and paws at the curls that have fallen into her eyes. _Laughs!_ A red aura of fury presses in on her vision, and she fights to stymie it. He’s goading her into an emotional response, using her own favorite tactic against her. And it’s _working,_ damn him. She’s got to calm down. Got to turn this around. Or this time, it will be she who is pinned to the-

An attempt to widen her stance for leverage turns disastrous when Elizabeth mistakenly plants her foot on the open cover of one of the scattered books. The distribution of her weight shifts without warning, and she goes down, ass hitting the ground with a thud. James seizes the opportunity, and gives the poker a twist against her outstretched weapon, ensnaring her blade in the hook and effectively wrenching the sword from her hand. He reaches out and catches it in midair. Then he turns the full weight of his smug gaze down on her.

They remain that way for a time, Elizabeth’s heart hammering, her chest heaving, her chin out in defiance as he merely watches her, waits for her to speak. When she does break the silence, it’s to imperiously ask, ‘Now what?’

‘That depends,’ he counters, amusement evident in his tone. ‘Do you surrender?’

Surrender? The word gives her pause. He has played her game. He has fought her, put up a struggle both literally and figuratively. And, despite the sour taste of it, she has no choice but to admit he has bested her in her own chosen contest. A good sport would admit defeat and face the consequences. But it is not in Elizabeth’s nature to do either. Her pride won’t have it. Not while she still has room to wriggle free. If he wants her surrender, he shall have to take it.

‘Never.’ And she means it.

James purses his lips, considering his options, no doubt. His gaze darts toward the desk before he gathers both weapons into one hand and offers the other down to her. Elizabeth’s eyes narrow suspiciously. But she takes it nonetheless. She is hauled to her feet in an instant, so close she can feel the heat radiating off him, can taste the salty tang of his sweat. His thumb comes up, brushes along her jaw, sending a shiver down her spine.

‘Never?’ His voice is buttery smooth. His fingertips are dancing down her neck. ‘Not even if I ask nicely?’

...oh. _Oh._ Understanding clears the pervading mist of rebellion within her. This isn’t merely a teasing riposte. James is asking for her consent. He means to attempt to compel her to surrender, but only if she acquiesces. Like with their dance earlier...stepping in tandem...he’ll lead, but only if she wants him to. And she _does._ He will not break her, but the attempt will be sweet regardless.

Elizabeth rocks up onto tip-toe, her lips a hair’s breadth from his. ‘_Especially_ not if you ask nicely.’

This reaction pleases him, proving her supposition of his intentions correct. Along with the fact that he wanted this too. ‘Very well. Have it your way.’

And then he is kissing her, passionate and probing and deep, stalwart fingers weaving into her drooping coiffure. His tongue slices through her parted lips, and she sucks it. Hard. She hears the weapons go clattering to the floor, a hiss of gasping breath. He jerks away from her, his glare tempered with playful chastisement.

Elizabeth dons a superior smile. But it flees when, without any warning, he scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder. She beats feeble fists against his back, only half-fighting, feet kicking as he packs her toward the desk. There is a sudden racket, accented by the shattering of glass, as he swipes everything off the top in one swift movement. This precipitous and flagrant disregard for order only serves to intensify her thirst for him, but she barely has time to note the insistent throb of her sex before he has deposited her on the desktop, arms caging her in.

She can’t help it, the fever in his smoldering gaze is melting away her inhibitions. Before she can check them, the words have already weaseled out. ‘And now what precisely do you intend to do? Fuck me right here in the Fitzwarren’s library?’

His brows lower. His eyes narrow. He backs away just enough for her to slide to the floor, and, in a tone which brooks no argument, orders her to turn around.

Elizabeth debates resisting him further, she truly does, measuring her inclination toward rebellion against the divine prospect of James taking her from behind. The latter wins out, for by now her near desperation to have him is taking its toll. And besides. She hasn’t expressly surrendered. This isn’t a victory for him. Not exactly a loss either, but it will do. She does as she’s bade.

James rucks up the yards and yards of fabric hanging from her hips, bunching it up and leaving her bare ass exposed, chilly in the open air. Then, in a silent exchange, he passes it to her to hold. Elizabeth gathers her skirts in her right hand just as his own splays across her back between her shoulder blades, pressing down, prompting her to bend at the waist until her chest is against the desktop, pinning both fist and skirts beneath her belly.

She cranes her head to one side in an effort to see over her shoulder, but the action lifts her up a few inches, and James elicits a chiding hum before gently pushing her back down until her cheek rests against the cool surface. Then, dexterous digits skate up the inside of her thigh, where she is practically dripping in her readiness for him.

‘Tell me,’ he rumbles at just above a whisper. ‘Is it your torment of me that has roused you so, or my retaliation?’

Her wry rejoinder devolves into a whimper as his fingertips trace the petals of her quim, lingering at her entrance. She strains back toward his hand, seeking pressure, chasing the sensation.

She can hear the smirk he’s wearing without even seeing it. ‘I see.’

James’ other hand grips her free wrist, trapping it at her side, then the one teasing her is abruptly pulled away before cracking down sharply against her backside. Elizabeth yelps in surprise and squirms as he caresses the sting from her flesh and leans down, lips grazing the shell of her ear as he murmurs, ‘Do you surrender?’

She is still reeling from the shock of being stricken, temporarily stunned into a type of paralysis, but his inquiry shakes her free. ‘Never,’ she grits out through clenched teeth, then chokes on and swallows down a moan when his hand comes down again, her knees bending of their own accord, her feet rising up off the floor. This time, his fingers brush her clit, his thumb delving into her ever so slightly, and she’s instantly mad with need, trying to buck back against him. But he’s holding her fast. She can’t get any leverage.

‘Do you surrender?’

‘Never.’ Her voice quavers enough for both of them to notice, and she has all of a second to rue it before he strikes her once more. This time, it is more pleasure than pain, and Elizabeth is becoming excruciatingly aware of every inch of her skin. The sweat slickening her temples and neckline, the scrape of her nipples against the inside of her stays, the silken glide of her clocked stockings against her legs. Damn, but she wants out of these clothes. She wants the feel of James’ flesh against her own. She wants to touch him. _Taste_ him. God, she wants him inside her _so badly._ More than she’s ever wanted anything in her life. She’s so empty. If only her hands weren’t trapped. If only she could touch herself.

Elizabeth realizes she’s been saying it all out loud, babbling in a delirious stream of heightened desire, as James’ fingers flex against her wrist. She clamps down on her rambling. It would embarrass her to accidentally get so carried away if she possessed the wherewithal to care. Which she does not.

‘Do you surrender?’

‘Never!’ _Crack._

‘Do you surrender?’

‘Fuck you!’ _Crack._

There are tears in her eyes. She’s panting like a bitch in heat. Why is she even fighting him anymore? Why is she resisting? She’s forgotten why it was so important...surely...surely it wouldn’t be so terrible if she gave in? She sucks in a shaky breath and croaks, ‘If I do, will you-’

‘This is not a negotiation of terms, Elizabeth,’ he states evenly as he rolls her clit between his thumb and forefinger which has her keening, forehead pressed hard against the desktop to keep herself from begging him not to stop. Which he does.

Silence stretches out between them for a beat, broken only by her sobbing gasps for air and the sounds of the celebration in the distance.

‘Tell me to stop, and I shall.’

There is a new dimension to his tone, a thread of gravity that causes her to peer over her shoulder at him. James is flushed and rumpled, but his eyes are clear and bright. A dawning understanding rattles something loose inside her, her heart lurching against her rib cage. This version of him he’d been hiding, this roughness, this aspect he’s finally allowing her to see...it’s still her James. It was all along.

He’s checking in, yet again. Expressing his wish for her sustained consent. He won’t go any further than he’s sure she wants. And that’s why he’s doing all of this, isn’t it? Because _she_ wanted it. And she had wanted it because _he_ did. She loves him _so damn much._ Trusts him. _Needs_ him. As he needs her.

But all she has to do is say one word, and he’ll put an end to this. One word from her, and the clash, the struggle will be over. One word, and he’ll release her, help set her clothing to rights, and escort her home. One word. Elizabeth drags in a fortifying breath.

‘Surrender.’

‘...what was that?’

‘I surrender, James.’

Her submission has the desired effect, for after a full body shudder that betrays his own arousal, James draws away just far enough to undo the placket of his breeches. Then he is back, filling her inch by glorious inch, a slow, steady slide that sets her every nerve ablaze. Once fully sheathed within her, he pauses just long enough for her to release a sigh of anticipatory bliss, before swiftly withdrawing only to slam back into her with brutal force. 

The pace he sets is deliciously savage, so deep and punishing the desk is squeaking across the floorboards with every thrust. Elizabeth is striving for quiet and missing it abysmally, her open mouth brimming over with breathless little cries and reflexive curses. The reckless abandon, the bruising vehemence, it feels so _good._ There is electricity crackling in her core, and she concentrates on it, charts its path as it twitches in her extremities and shoots sparks up her spine. She’s close, so maddeningly close already, sweat beading on her brow as she ruts back against him and he hits that spot inside her that transforms her sex-drunk speech into strangled moans and ratchets up the tension in her tendons to the point of snapping.

James grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls, arcing her up off the desk, neck bowed back, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as it suddenly becomes too much to bear. She’s splintering, shaking apart, shattering into a thousand tiny fractals, clenching on his cock like a fist and spiraling out of control with the pain and pleasure of it.

Elizabeth sags forward once the aftershocks have finished tingling through her body, and James releases his grip on her tangled curls. He plants a chaste kiss against the nape of her neck, crooning tender praises while still hard as a stone pillar inside her. When she finally manages to catch her breath, she pushes up off the desktop and to her feet, James slipping out of her wetly, and turns to face him.

There is a wildness in his fathomless green eyes, a quality bordering on feral, that says he’s only stopped for her sake, speaking to his seemingly boundless restraint, his unwillingness to take what is not plainly offered. Her husband is many things, but he is no pirate. Not by any stretch of the word. And, for all her own piratical nature, God help her, she knows now that she would not have him any other way.

Elizabeth takes his face in both her hands and kisses him. Long and lazy and sweet. ‘Oh, James,’ she breathes against his lips. ‘My James.’ The expression he wears could break her heart for all its naked vulnerability. The walls have come down. And she means to reward him in full.

‘Help me up?’

He does, lifting her until she’s seated on the desktop and then tucking her skirts behind her when she shimmies up so he can get them out of the way. He bites his lip as his gaze drinks in her creamy spread thighs, fingertips stroking all the way to her knees and back, and she laughs, jubilant and sparkling. His eyes return to hers, and she strokes his cheek fondly, so full of affection she could burst. Then she guides his lips to hers with one hand as the other guides him back inside her.

James makes love to her then, langrous and earnest in his strokes, generously allowing the helpless little noises he’s making to go unchecked, one hand cupping her ass, the other wrapped around the back of her neck. Elizabeth cards her fingers through his dark, luscious hair, delighting in the shiver it sends through him, and meets every rock of his hips with her own.

‘I love you,’ she tells him, and his breath hitches. ‘James, I love you so much.’

His eyes flick open, shining as though he’s fighting tears, full of reverence, devotion, gratitude. Still keeping their rhythm, he snakes a hand down to circle her pearl with his fingers once, twice, three times, and then she is cascading over the edge once again, eyelids fluttering, muscles spasming in her ecstasy. He follows on her heels, pulsing inside her with a sound that is half gasp, half moan.

When he comes to, his luminous gaze scans over her state of dishevelment, and he chuckles with a slight shake of his head. Her lips split in a sated grin. It’s so damned good to hear him laugh again.

‘A fine mess I’ve made of things.’

The self-deprecation in his tone is intolerable, and she will not sanction it. ‘I believe I’ve had an equal share in said mess.’

His brows knit, concern flaring his nostrils, his thumb stroking her chin. ‘Why did you not simply tell me what it was you wanted?’

Elizabeth sighs, though there is no annoyance in it. ‘Turnabout is fair play, Commodore. You weren’t exactly making any verbal concessions either.’

James seems nonplussed as he contemplates that. No doubt he will be ruminating on her words for some time. But time is not currently a luxury they can afford. Elizabeth hops down, wobbling enough that he reaches out to steady her.

‘Perhaps it would be prudent to save this conversation for later?’ She gestures toward the wreckage wrought by their impromptu duel. ‘For now, I believe a hasty retreat may be the best course of action. Lest the Fitzwarrens are overcome with a sudden desire to read.’

\---

That they escape without notice is nothing short of a miracle. Elizabeth fully expects to hear all manner of rumor about the destruction of the Fitzwarren’s property, but she’s confident in her ability to feign outraged ignorance. No one will suspect her of a thing.

The carriage ride home had been a quiet affair, though the pervading tension that had become the unseen third party in their marriage of late was blessedly absent. James attention had been elsewhere, his gaze entrenched in the middle distance. And, for once, she was loathe to interrupt his thoughts. So she contented herself with leaning against his shoulder and lapsing into her own brown study.

Now, they are lying in bed in the comforting darkness of their own room, Elizabeth folded against her husband’s side with his arm around her shoulders as she breathes in the scent of him, and he idly plays with a lock of her hair.

Eventually, her patience pays off, and James breaks the silence.

‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth.’

She peers up at his face, but he’s staring up at the shadow drenched ceiling. She waits for him to continue.

‘You’re right. I should have come forward with my worries, rather than...hiding.’ The word is evidently distasteful to him, the way his mouth screws up as he says it. Like he’s bitten into something bitter. But the grimace fades into a small smile that he turns down on her. ‘That said, in the future, you do not have to torture me for weeks because you wish me to bend you over the furniture. A simple request will do.’

Elizabeth blinks. ‘James. What do you think ‘let go’ means? Or harder? Faster? I’ve been _requesting_ for you to be rough with me since the beginning.’

Now it’s his turn to blink. Once. Twice. His mouth falls open, as if to speak, and then closes again. She decides to take pity on him by way of continuing so that he need not fumble to reply.

‘I know that you’re not the type of man to presume in such things, and I do not see such caution in and of itself as a character flaw. Quite the contrary, in fact. But...what I don’t understand, is why you resisted for so long. What were you so afraid of? Did you think I would judge you? Were you...judging me?’

That last question gets a prompt reaction. ‘No. Never.’

‘Alright, then. That’s good to hear. But it still doesn’t answer the rest. Why were you hiding from me, James?’

He draws in a deep breath through his nose and releases it in a sharp whuff. ‘It’s...difficult to put into words.’

‘Try.’

His eyes snag on hers and find them pleading. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, as if coming to a decision. Then he returns his gaze to the ceiling before forging on.

‘I have not always been a good man, Elizabeth. There was a time when I allowed my baser instincts to prevail, and the man I became...he was...mean. In every sense of the term. A brute capable of such vicious rancor...and heinous treachery. Such a fiend, he is more than unworthy of you. And I fear…’

He pauses, his instinct to conceal clearly waging war with his effort to give her the explanation she’s been seeking. To her relief, the latter wins out. ‘I fear his return. I fear the tempting draw of his rage. His predilection for violence. But more than that-’ He locks eyes with her, and there is a raw exposure in their depths she has never seen before. ‘I fear that his reveal would cause you to leave me.’

His voice is thick with emotion. And the honesty of it fairly rends her in two. Elizabeth deliberates for an uncharacteristically long time on how to reply. She has never known James to exhibit such temperament as he has confessed, although there was a great deal of her childhood she had not spent in his presence. Still, the James she has come to love...she cannot picture him behaving thusly. 

But even if he had, it was long enough ago now that it makes no difference. Not to her. She may not understand his fears, but they are a part of him nonetheless. And he has finally entrusted them to her.

‘Thank you for telling me. But you needn’t worry about me leaving you. I could sooner leave my own heart behind.’

His gaze is boring into her own, no doubt dissecting every nuance, every intention found there, searching for insincerity. His scrutiny is forgivable, if only because she finally understands why it exists.

‘We have time, James. Time to talk about this. This and every other thing that comes between us. But I can’t do that on my own. I need you to be honest with me. Even if it seems a frightening prospect. No more secrets. No more guessing. No more assumptions and hurting in silence. I want all of you, James. As you shall have all of me. Mine, as I am yours. As long as we both shall live.’

It takes seeing a tear glide down his cheek for her to realize he’s weeping. She brushes the droplet from his face with a caress of her lips, and he rolls onto his side to enfold her in a crushing embrace. His tears have brought on her own, and she rubs them away with the heel of her hand before wrapping her arms around him as well.

‘You cannot know what you do to me,’ he muses quietly.

She pulls back just enough to meet his gaze, brow arched as she quips, ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I may, in fact, know? That perhaps you could do the same to me?’

His bewilderment borders on incredulity, which she mislikes greatly, so she tweaks the end of his nose in the way she’d watched his mother do at their wedding reception, and his eyes go wide.

‘We’re on the same side, James. Please don’t forget that.’

James’ shock melts into an almost boyish smile, the kind she so rarely sees on him, his teeth bared and his eyes glittering. ‘As you say, my love.’

‘Good,’ she returns, dizzy with joy and pride and something like wonder. Then she yawns. Alright. They’ll be alright. She can finally rest. ‘Now then. You have an early morning with the Admiral. So kiss me goodnight, that we might get some sleep.’

And he does.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, dear readers! The thrilling conclusion to this brief indulgence of an AU of my own AU. I certainly hope it was as deliciously diverting for all of you as it was for me. Lord knows I cannot get enough of these two, and I will surely be doomed to a lifetime of transmuting that frustration into fic. 
> 
> Thank you all so very much for coming along with me on this little adventure! Your continued readership and encouragement means the world to me. Please let me know what you thought of this last installment as well. Email notifications from this website are like a shot of opioids- so punch that kudos button and leave a review! And, as always, if you should like to discuss this, any of my other projects, or just Norribeth in general, you can find me over at [my tumblr](https://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I have a few upcoming projects on the horizon, one of which is a rather ambitious undertaking, a multi-chapter AU I've been stewing on for a while now. So keep an ear to the ground! I'll be back in the new decade with even more Norribeth!
> 
> Until then, my darlings!~
> 
> Also, a very special thanks-
> 
> To _Snowbryneich,_ for the use of Admiral and Lady Bellamy and for wonderfully invigorating feedback.  
To _Lilith_diLibri_ and _chindisglasses,_ for opportunities to brainstorm and explore ideas. In varying degrees of smuttiness.  
To _Kallielef,_ for reaching out to a longtime fan and making all her wildest Norribeth dreams come true. You have, and continue to inspire me.
> 
> And to Madeline. For tactical memes and whirlwind edits. For side-splitting laughter and healing tears. For late, late nights and early, early mornings. For talking me up and talking me down. You are exceptional in the way only you can be. And you are beloved. 
> 
> This one was for you.


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